Watch the place where you once would look. Focus on the field in question. Let’s face it— I’m always starting it wrong. Your eyes themselves are invocations, the world sparking and sighing as you gaze, smiling and quiet, holding sly secrets on your cunning tongue. You stroll through the niceties of time and lives, spells warm upon your legs, gently singing along. The moon turns over, roots reach, and buds swell. You see your way on through.
You are threaded with intersections, you are bruised by the shadows of gods. All green grows your garden with spring still a stretch away. All bright goes the nursery, running wild and streaming reds and yellows along its beat. The weight of crossed irons and blind blades, blinded by the fire and the dance. You stitch your signature along the precipice, and straight to the center on through. There in the night forest, there in the moon wax mind. The wind scuffs its toe in the dirt and I smell you on my sheets.
The glow of bare skin, the rhythm of wood and bone. Curled smoke filling a lamp shade. The air electric and possessed. All altar and hushed sacrifice, flesh full of ritual. The swelter full of brazen insistence, sweat and tremble. Falling forward into this summoning, the heavens pressing all the places down. Up into the firmament you follow your vision. In the blind sky night you rise.
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